


Cold to the Core

by uena



Series: The Road to Hell (is Paved With Good Intentions) [14]
Category: The Tomorrow People (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:36:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't react well to the new drug formula, and Jedikiah worries. He doesn't like that at all, so he vents by annoying someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold to the Core

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hope_calaris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_calaris/gifts).



> This ran away from me, did a few laps around the block, and came back panting – with a frisbee in its mouth it must have stolen somewhere.

When Jedikiah was seven, Roger fell through the ice on the lake behind their grandparents’ house. He remembers the fear in his gut when his Grandmother pulled Roger out of the freezing water sopping wet; remembers Roger's white face, the blue in his fingertips, tiny icicles in his lashes.

It felt like hours before Roger stopped shivering, huddled in front of the fireplace, a green blanket around his shoulders. Everyone was trying to take care of him at once, their grandparents and parents alike, gathering every pillow in the house, heating water for a hot bottle, chafing his hands and his feet, pouring him endless cups of tea.

Jedikiah was the only one who wasn’t allowed to help.

He was too young, they said, asked him to keep out of the way. He could only look on, share their agitation without being able to do anything to distract himself. He couldn’t do a single thing for Roger.

Just like he can’t do anything now.

John’s body is shaking so violently they had to strap him to a table to prevent him from falling and hurting himself further. His skin is almost the same colour as the white gauze they wrapped around his head. Even from his position outside the room, looking in through the glass in the door, Jedikiah can see a tiny spot of blood from his wound seeping through.

Nobody knows what’s going on, why John’s reaction to the drugs is so violent this time, why he suddenly fainted – mid sentence, just outside of headquarters. Jedikiah couldn’t catch him in time, had to watch John’s head hit the concrete, had to listen to the sickening crunch.

He gathered him in his arms and carried him back inside – and then they took John from him.

They took him and patched him up, and strapped him to the table when he wouldn’t lie still for them to examine him. He’s still unconscious, if from the fall or something else, Jedikiah doesn’t know.

Neither Doctor Kennex nor Doctor Reddington, Kennex’s assistant and Second in Command in the lab have told him anything so far.

Jedikiah doesn’t like it – any of it. He hates having to watch without being able to do anything, without contributing. He hates watching John suffer, hates not knowing if he will be okay. If this will pass.

None of the other test subjects have shown a reaction even remotely comparable – everyone else just walked out, some mentioned feeling a bit cold, but nothing more.

Jedikiah feels useless, and watching John strain against the leather straps around his wrists and ankles even while unconscious doesn’t help. He wants to touch him, wants to put his hand to John’s forehead and tell him he’ll be fine.

John would believe him. John always believes him – every single lie.

But Kennex told him in no uncertain terms that he was to stay _out_ of the lab, that he wasn’t welcome, that he’d only be in the way.

One of these days, Jedikiah will probably shoot the man.

Jedikiah takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a few seconds. When he re-opens them, all he can see at first is his own reflection in the glass of the door. John’s blood is on the collar of his shirt.

He blinks and re-focuses his gaze back on John. Kennex and Reddington are standing to his left and right, taking blood, scanning, using him like a needle cushion. He’s not so much straining against his bonds anymore as he’s violently shivering – helpless and unceasingly, just like Roger did.

_Just like Roger did._

With that memory now completely unlocked, Jedikiah turns around and starts walking. He doesn’t stop for anyone, and after the first three people, nobody tries to address him anyway.

The security guard in the lobby who witnessed him carrying John inside takes one look at his face, then holds open the door for him and favours him with a silent nod. Jedikiah has always liked her. She knows when not to waste any words.

He takes a left once he’s out the door, walks down the street at a brisk pace, keeps his head down. The blood on his collar is probably disturbing to passing pedestrians, but right now Jedikiah doesn’t give a rat’s ass about that.

He has somewhere he needs to be, and a little blood on his collar won’t stop him.

It takes him roughly fifteen minutes of walking to reach his destination. The shop looks a bit run-down, but it’s still there, and Jedikiah suppresses a little sigh of relief. It’s been years since he was last here – with a girl who hadn’t learned yet that he wasn’t one to keep around (and certainly no one to take on shopping trips for living room accessories).

He’s grateful for that horrible experience now, because he wouldn’t have had a single clue in hell where to buy John a fluffy blanket otherwise.

He’s just stepped inside the dimly lit shop, and recovered from the horribly jingly bell above the door, when he’s accosted by the owner – a fierce lady with too bright lipstick, wearing sensible shoes. Jedikiah remembers her and her judgemental looks. Revenge is his.

She recoils when she sees the blood on his shirt, and he puts on a fake smile. “Just a little shaving accident.”

She wrinkles her forehead at him. “But you’re not hurt.”

“I didn’t say I was shaving myself, was I?” Before she gets in another word, he adopts a haughty stance, looks around with his nose held high and his hands on his hips. “I need a blanket. A fluffy one. As warm as possible.”

That throws her off guard for a moment, then she collects herself, studies him with drawn brows. “Very well. Follow me.”

She leads him deeper into the shop, to a corner that smells of dust and the need for a good airing. “Those are the warmest ones,” she says, pointing her finger at a stack of folded cloth that looks ominous in the dim lighting of the shop.

Jedikiah reaches out a hand to rub the fabric between the tips of his fingers, closes his eyes for a second. “No. Those feel like plastic. I need naturally processed fabric. Nothing … fake.”

“Nothing fake,” she echoes, looking as unimpressed as she possibly could.

“Yes,” Jedikiah says, his tone firm, allowing no argument. “This cannot possibly be all you have to offer?”

“Of course it’s not,” she snipes at him. “But you said _warm_. This newfangled plastic crap is the warmest you’re gonna get.”

“Okay,” Jedikiah allows. “Forget I even mentioned the word. What I really look for is _quality_. A quality blanket. Soft, big, and if possible, fuzzy. Something that practically screams comfort – instead of trapping all air and suffocating its victims in a grave as hot as the desert during lunch hours. ”

She narrows her eyes at him, suddenly looking suspicious. “You seem familiar. Do I know you?”

She _might_ have been the aunt of the girl he wasn’t properly dating back in the day, and whose name he can’t recall right now. He’s not sure.

“I couldn’t say,” Jedikiah turns his back to her, looks around the shop. “About that blanket?”

When he looks back at her, her grey eyes gleam hard. “You prepared to spend some money? Because let me tell you, a quality blanket is not cheap, and I don’t wanna waste my time on you if you’re just here to complain about my merchandise.”

Jedikiah lifts his nose a few millimetres higher. “You are being rude and uncivil, but I’m still prepared to hand my money over to you – so if you would be so generous to point me in the right direction, I’ll gladly stop wasting your time.”

She sniffs. “I won’t let you walk around my shop unattended, young man, get that idea out of your head. The quality stuff’s in the back room – come on, I don’t have all day.”

For that alone, Jedikiah spends an inordinate amount of time fussing over a sickly yellow blanket that’s basically perfect in every single way but the colour. He thinks about how it would look draped over John’s shoulders, how it would accentuate the dark shadows so often to be found beneath John’s eyes. It would look terrible. Personal studies have shown that John manages to do that all by himself with alarming regularity nowadays – he doesn’t need the help of an offensively ugly blanket.

“I really like it,” Jedikiah says finally, and hears her insufficiently repressed exasperated sigh. “I want it in green.”

“In green,” she parrots, her voice as flat as her shoes.

“Woodsy,” Jedikiah says, feeling vindictive. “A dark, vibrant green. Like a Christmas tree.”

If looks could kill, he’d be very dead now, possibly horribly mutilated. “Let me have a look around, maybe I can find something like that for you.”

“You do that,” Jedikiah nods, “I’ll wait for you by the register.”

He’s already seen the blanket in question right at the bottom of the furthermost stack in the northeast corner of the room, but there’s no need to tell her that. He busies himself with picking a pillow that will match the blanket while he waits for her to unearth it.

She takes quite a while and looks harassed once she emerges from the back room, the blanket in her arms. “This the colour you want?”

“Perfect,” Jedikiah purrs, then puts the pillow he picked down by the register, and takes the blanket from her, spreads it out.

“What,” the shop owner practically spits at him, “are you doing?”

“Looking for moth damage,” he answers serenely. “Just a precaution.”

“There are no moths in my shop!” she informs him with an excessive amount of emphasis on every single word of the sentence.

Jedikiah looks at her down his nose. “And how am I supposed to know that? I haven’t been in here in years.”

She doesn’t seem to know what to say to this, and he folds the blanket once he’s satisfied that it’s undamaged. “But you are quite right – no sign of moths whatsoever. I will take this pillow as well, please.”

Frigid silence reigns while she rings up his purchase and stuffs it into an oversized bag.

He pays an exorbitant amount of money for blanket and pillow, thanks her in his most insincere voice, and prepares to leave.

“You!” he hears her suddenly explode when he’s almost made it to the door. “I remember you now! You’re the bastard who messed around with Annie!”

Jedikiah walks a bit faster, and the door falls shut behind him with a jaunty little jingle of the bell.

 

Once he’s outside, the little protective bubble Jedikiah had put between himself and the reason he went and bought that blanket bursts.

To say he runs back to headquarters would be a gross exaggeration, but he certainly marches along at a speed that does not allow for any dawdling in his path.

Blanket and cushion in their bag seem unnaturally heavy, the bag’s straps cutting into his hand and leaving a red mark that reminds Jedikiah of the blood on his collar.

Maybe John has woken up by now.

Maybe this was just a fluke, a little hiccup. Nothing to be concerned about.

The thing is, Jedikiah thinks while he sidesteps a young father pushing a stroller, _the thing is_ , he shouldn’t be this affected even if it wasn’t just a fluke. He likes John, sure, he’s always liked him.

But that doesn’t justify the boiling mess of emotions at the bottom of his stomach. John is a good boy, and Jedikiah’s grown quite fond of him, but what this comes down to is that Jedikiah is conducting an experiment, and John’s one of his research projects.

Something like this was bound to happen. It was just a matter of time. He should have seen this coming.

But he didn’t.

And now he went out and bought a fucking blanket because he couldn’t deal with the situation otherwise.

The realization that this whole _thing_ got so far away from him it’s not even on the same planet anymore doesn’t so much hit Jedikiah as it kicks him in the stomach and steals all his money.

He genuinely _cares_ for John. He doesn’t want John to get hurt, doesn’t want him to suffer. Not out of misguided empathy or even philanthropy – but for the simple selfish desire to have John by his side, happy and intact.

John isn’t intact. He probably never was. Not with the childhood he had.

But he was happy – briefly – with him.

Jedikiah knows that he was, could see it in John’s eyes every time they were close to each other. He wants to see that again, come hell or high water.

 

The building where Ultra is located looks forbidding, even under the bright afternoon sun. The doors aren’t quite as welcoming to Jedikiah as usual, and he has to struggle through them with his bag clutched tightly to his chest, the security guard only coming to his aid when he’s already halfway through.

“Thank you,” he says anyway – partly because the woman has a gun strapped to her hip, and partly because he actually likes her – and she favours him with a nod again, briefly glances at his purchases.

“Got everything you need?”

Jedikiah sighs. “I sincerely doubt it.”

He leaves her standing with that cryptic reply and advances on one of the elevators, claims it for himself and closes his eyes once the doors shut in front of him.

John will be fine. He has to be.

The elevator makes its way up to the floor where the Science Department is located, and when Jedikiah steps out of it, his face does not betray his emotions. The blanket might, and the pillow certainly does, but not his face.

And it doesn’t matter that Kennex and Reddington told him to stay out, when Jedikiah reaches the door to their lab, he walks right in – right up to the table John is no longer strapped to.

“Where is he?” he bellows, feels every muscle in his shoulders go rigid, and cold foreboding form around his heart.

Kennex is nowhere to be seen, just like John, but in the opposite corner of the room Reddington looks up from his microscope. “Who?”

Should Jedikiah ever shoot Kennex, Reddington will be right next in line.

“John Young,” he says, his voice dripping acid. “You remember him? Was here not an hour ago.”

“Oh, him,” Reddington shrugs, oozing scientific disinterest. “He woke up. Asked for you. We sent him to his room.”

There are many things Jedikiah could say. About proper medical procedure for example, or what happens to people who annoy him beyond the point of no return. He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t say anything.

He just turns around and leaves quietly, with his blanket and his pillow.

The floors are eerily hushed, and Jedikiah can’t for the life of him remember if that’s _normal_ – if he’s projecting, if he actually welcomed the silence any other day.

The way to John’s room has never been that long, and the bag’s straps cut deeper into the palm of his hand. He stops, once he reaches John’s door, steels himself for what he might find on the other side of it.

Just when he raises his hand to let himself in, the door opens to let Kennex out.

“He’ll be fine,” Kennex states immediately, probably in self-defence against the stormy look he encounters. “His vitals are strong.”

“There’s a ‘But’ in there somewhere,” Jedikiah says in return, tilting his head to achieve a better glare out of narrowed eyes.

“He’s feeling a bit under the weather,” Kennex shrugs, stiffening under the scrutiny, “and has decided to be dramatic about it.”

“Dramatic?” Jedikiah repeats, and the sudden hot feeling in his gut must be anger. “When has he ever been dramatic about anything?”

“Well, he is now,” Kennex claims, his tone somewhere between adamant and petulant. “We’ve double-checked everything. There’s nothing wrong with that kid – apart from his attitude maybe.”

A boiling volcano couldn’t be as dangerous as the coil of fury at the pit of Jedikiah’s stomach. “I see. Step aside, please. I want to see him. Talk to him about his … attitude.”

“By all means,” Kennex mutters, and leaves – noticeably eager to get away. Jedikiah stares after him with an angry crease between his brows, then enters John’s room rather abruptly.

John’s lying in bed, the comforter dragged up to his chin, and his shivering would probably rock the whole bed if it weren’t bolted to the floor.

Jedikiah gently closes the door behind him. “Hey. I’m sorry I wasn’t with you when you woke up.”

The soft tilt to his words would probably startle him if he hadn’t already had that revelation about his feelings for John – he’ll never know.

All he knows is that John all but catapults himself out of bed and into his arms in a manner so desperate it probably hurts. It certainly hurts Jedikiah – their bodies connecting with such force they’ll both have bruises to show for it afterwards.

John doesn’t say a word, just clings to him – silent and helpless, his body squirming not in arousal but the desperate search for warmth.

But he’s awake, his fingers so full of life that the fabric of Jedikiah’s suit jacket actually tears under their grip this time.

The sound of ripping cloth gives John pause for a few seconds, lets him freeze his body into a stillness that makes Jedikiah far more uncomfortable than John’s shivering ever could.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, brushes a kiss to John’s temple. “I’ve got other suits. Just let me shrug out of the jacket, and then we’ll get you warm.”

John looks up at him, his eyes trusting, his pupils slightly dilated. “The air in my lungs feels like ice.”

He sounds as if talking pains him, as if he actually has to breathe against tiny icicles in his windpipe. How anyone could construct this into John trying to be dramatic, Jedikiah won’t ever understand.

“I bought you a blanket,” he says shrugging out of his suit jacket and letting it fall to the floor.

His words make John blink. “You what?”

He looks befuddled, all of a sudden – like a kitten trying to understand complex mathematics. Jedikiah closes the negligible distance between them, takes John’s face between his hands, and presses a kiss to his lips, soft, but not at all innocent.

“I bought you a blanket,” he repeats.

John sighs and closes his eyes, apparently no longer interested in understanding the complexities of Jedikiah’s erratic shopping behaviour. “Okay.”

Jedikiah closes his arms around him, hugs him as close as possible. John doesn’t feel cold – not at all. He’s warm and touchable, just like he always is. But there’s a certain strain beneath his skin, his whole body feeling like a spring coiled too tight – ready to unravel at the slightest touch.

“Our delightful Doctor Kennex told me that you’re _completely fine_ ,” Jedikiah murmurs, the undercurrent in his voice as treacherously calm as the sea before a storm. “I can’t help but assume that you’re anything but.”

“It’s just so cold,” John whispers back, sounding broken and hopeless. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Does this help?” Jedikiah asks him. “Physical closeness, I mean? Do you get warmer when I’m holding you?”

“Yes,” John says, his voice small, “but only a little. It’s … it’s like my clothes are somehow holding the warmth off instead of … instead of keeping it in.”

Jedikiah’s brows draw together. “And what did Kennex say to that?”

John avoids his gaze. “That I’m imagining things.”

“Did he clear you for removal from headquarters?” Jedikiah asks instead of voicing his opinion on this groundbreaking diagnosis.

“He told me I should go do something to distract myself instead of hiding in bed,” John offers doubtfully.

Jedikiah’s brows clear as if by magic. “Perfect.” He puts his hands on John’s shoulders, tries to soothe the tiny tremors . “I’m taking you home, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” John murmurs, his eyes incredibly blue under the artificial lighting in his room. “Home is good.”

 

“Okay, I found it. How do you feel? Do you still need it? Any improvement?” Jedikiah stops in the door to the living room, halfway between anxious and forcefully calm. He’s got an empty hot-water bottle in his hands he found in one of the kitchen cupboards.

The taxi drive home was short and a bit nerve-wrecking – with John trying to be as little of a burden to him as possible, and Jedikiah quenching the desire to force every single complaint out of him.

He parked John on the couch as soon as they’d entered the house, and marched off to the kitchen. Making hot chocolate in the middle of summer felt a bit weird, but seeing John with the cup cradled in his hands now most certainly does not.

The boy’s on the couch in his pyjamas, wrapped into the green blanket, with the equally green pillow beneath his feet, and a bright red cup between his long slender fingers. All that’s missing to complete the picture of outrageously early Christmas is a Santa Hat (and maybe a terrible rendition of Santa Baby).

“I’m still cold,” John admits, his voice very, very quiet. If Jedikiah hadn’t threatened him with terrible consequences, he probably would have tried to lie and said he’s good now.

Jedikiah is very glad that John still believes his threats. “Okay, I’ll heat up some water, you stay here and try to get warm.”

He turns around and goes back to the kitchen, puts the kettle on. Thirty seconds later he hears John’s footsteps on the hardwood floor, and turns around with sufficient momentum to startle him a little bit.

“John … I told you to stay in the living room.”

“I know,” John answers, his eyes on the floor, his cheeks stained with red. “Sorry.”

He’s brought the blanket with him, has it draped across his shoulders like a cape, and Jedikiah can’t do anything but sigh and relent. “It’s okay. I just don’t want you to fall and hit your head again.”

He zeroes in on the gauze around the wound. “How is _that_ doing, by the way? Do you have a headache?”

“Yes,” John admits, his eyes still glued to the floor, “but Kennex said I’m fine.”

“Kennex can kiss my ass,” is Jedikiah’s involuntarily frank reply.

It startles a little snort of amusement out of John. “I don’t think he’d like that.”

“Well,” Jedikiah allows, and turns towards the stove to fill the water into the hot-water bottle before it starts boiling, “not everyone can be as fond of my backside as you are.”

He doesn’t get an immediate reply – he didn’t expect one – but John loops his arms around his middle, presses close from behind. “I cannot possibly be the only one who’s fond of … of your backside.”

Jedikiah doesn’t try to suppress the dry chuckle clawing its way up his chest. “Oh, trust me, you’d be surprised.”

John’s embrace becomes a bit tighter. “I already am.”

Jedikiah concentrates on not spilling any hot water in favour of answering, and then screws the hot-water bottle shut with exaggerated concentration.

“We can go back to the living room now,” he proclaims when John’s still holding on to him once he’s finished. It does not elicit the smallest reaction.

Jedikiah blinks. “John?”

“I thought you’d gone,” John whispers into his shoulder blade.

Jedikiah’s features scrunch up into a grimace of discontent. “Well. To be fair, _I had_.”

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” John murmurs hoarsely, his fingers threatening to once again tear the fabric they’re holding on to.

Jedikiah has to take a deep breath and lay aside the hot-water bottle, then he puts his hands on top of John’s. “I’ll always come back, you hear me, John? I’ll always come for you, whether you want me to or not.”

Any other kid would make him promise, would force him into some sort of contract – but not John. John doesn’t say anything. It’s unsettling, and it makes Jedikiah want to reassure him even more.

So he turns around, slowly, and is glad when his shirt does survive the move intact. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

John looks at him, briefly, and his eyes look tormented. “I want to. So much.”

“I understand,” Jedikiah says, because he _does_. Trust does not come easily to John, nor is Jedikiah someone who’s very trustworthy in general. “And it’s okay for you to have those fears. I don’t blame you. Not at all.”

A shiver runs through John’s body, if from feeling cold or something else entirely, Jedikiah doesn’t know. He reaches behind himself blindly and gets a hold on the hot-water bottle. “Back to the couch now, please.”

John nods and lets go of him, and Jedikiah presses the bottle into his hands, gently pushes him along in front of him, guides him back to the living room.

“If you plan on building your blanket-fort with me inside, I think I need to shed some layers first,” Jedikiah says, his voice as light as possible, “or I might actually melt.”

John stiffens beneath his hand. “You don’t have to –“

“Of course I have to,” Jedikiah cuts him short, takes his hand off his shoulder. “It’s a compulsion, really – I need to cuddle up with you as often as possible. That’s not the question here. The question is, whether you want me inside your fort or not.”

He sees John clutch to the water bottle a little too forcefully for a heartbeat or two, then the tension drains out of him, and he looks at Jedikiah over his shoulder. “I want you inside my fort.”

There’s no way to hold back a little grin while Jedikiah opens the first button on his shirt. “Now I’m sad that that wasn’t a euphemism for something else entirely.”

John more or less flings himself onto the couch, his cheeks red, but his mouth and eyes managing to stay earnest. “But you’ve already conquered that fort as well.”

Jedikiah rewards him with a solemn nod, his hands busy with unbuttoning his shirt. “It was a glorious day.”

“The celebrations lasted well into the night,” John quips, sounding a bit forced, but with an honest little smile on his lips.

Jedikiah raises his eyebrow at him. “You fell asleep on me.”

“Well, I was exhausted. Being conquered is exhausting.” John manages to look him dead in the eye while he says this, and Jedikiah experiences the overwhelming desire to come, see, and conquer once more. But now is hardly the time.

“Fair enough,” he says, and unbuttons his pants. He can feel John’s gaze on him as he pushes them down and steps out of them. Ignoring the answering tingle in his hands is almost impossible, but he manages, stands up straight and looks over at John. “Ready when you are.”

John holds the blanket open for him invitingly, so Jedikiah walks around the coffee table and sits down right next to him on the couch. “How do you want to –“

John slides onto his lap as if he’s practised it, turns sideways so he can throw his right arm around Jedikiah’s shoulders, cradle the hot-water bottle against his chest with his left. “Like this.”

Jedikiah busies himself with arranging the blanket until nothing but his head is visible of John. “Feeling any warmer?”

“Yes,” John says, closes his eyes and leans his head against Jedikiah’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Anything,” Jedikiah says, kisses John’s temple. He’s feeling too hot already. This won’t be fun.

And it isn’t – not fun, precisely. But it’s not as bad as Jedikiah would have thought. He’s comfortable, even if it’s too warm, and it feels good to have John close, even if he gets too heavy rather sooner than later.

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t fall asleep on Jedikiah this time. Instead he drinks the rest of his hot chocolate, and they talk – hold an actual conversation.

Jedikiah tells John stories about his childhood, about growing up with a supernatural brother, about his parents and grandparents. The words come slowly at first – Jedikiah’s never told these stories before, has never shared even a single memory. He’s never felt like they were his to share, and it was seldom safe to do so – for a number of different reasons. They are safe with John, though. Completely safe, he’s certain of that.

So Jedikiah lets himself open up about his past, even if he’s still careful to tell more of the happy, entertaining stories than the sad, frustrating ones – and that’s exclusively for John’s benefit. Now is simply not the time to open the book with the darker tales, not when John is feeling cold already. This is about warming him up, distracting him with tales of love and affection – mostly innocent brotherly disputes. There’s nobody left but Jack to remember the things he now entrusts to John, and Jedikiah feels a bit lighter once he’s done.

John has almost stopped shivering by then, and he’s looking at Jedikiah in a way that’s altogether new. There’s a little less worship in his eyes than usual, but a lot more awareness, understanding. “You were jealous of his powers.”

Jedikiah shrugs a shoulder, altogether unconcerned. “Of course I was. He can teleport. Who in his right mind who was ever forced to take the subway wouldn’t be jealous?”

John lets out an amused little huff, and Jedikiah has to fight the sudden urge to kiss him. “Enough about me and Jack. How are you? Are you hungry? Should I cook?”

“I’m a little hungry,” John discloses, looking abashed about it.

Jedikiah ruffles his hair. “Come on then. You can entertain me with your youthful outlook on life while I make pasta.”

 

They return to the couch with their plates, and Jedikiah turns on the TV, puts in a DVD. He pays much less attention to the movie than he does to John – watches his every reaction to the nonsense happening on screen.

It’s satisfying to watch John relax, forget his surroundings and be absorbed by something else. But only when John lets the blanket drop off his shoulders and unconsciously stretches his arms above his head, tries to relax his hardened muscles, does Jedikiah actually smile.

He doesn’t comment on the new development, merely collects the empty plates and returns them to the kitchen, puts them into the sink.

When he comes back in through the door, John looks at him with something akin to determination in his eyes, and Jedikiah becomes acutely aware of the fact that he’s in nothing but his boxers.

“No,” he says pre-emptively. “You’re sick.”

The resulting blush is adorable, and very gratifying.

“I’m feeling much better now,” John protests weakly.

Jedikiah nods, sits back down on the couch next to him – outside the blanket, this time. “Yes. And I’d like for it to stay that way.”

John blatantly ogles his naked chest and stomach. “I’m sure it won’t hurt me if we –“

“Do absolutely nothing – that won’t hurt you at all, you’re quite right,” Jedikiah shuts him down. “You fainted today, John. You hit your head on the concrete. Your body’s perception of temperature is all wonky – I won’t jeopardize your health, no matter how tempting it might be.”

John bites his lip, stays quiet, and Jedikiah puts a hand on his neck, pulls him close enough to brush their lips together. “Just for today, okay? Just to be sure.”

“Okay,” John says, because in the end, he will always do what Jedikiah wants him to.


End file.
